


Breathe Into Me

by SerenLight



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Reaper76 to be added, F/F, M/M, Slow Burn, Widowmaker-centric, Wingfic, Wings, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLight/pseuds/SerenLight
Summary: Two lonely feathers are the only remaining remnants of Widowmaker's past life.If only she could remember who they belonged to.Wing!AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in years, but I've fallen deep into the hole that is Overwatch and can't get out. Please send help.

Widowmaker lay on her bunk, staring up at the two feathers in her hand. One a deep chocolate colour, the other a striking bright blue. The edges were worn from years of keep. These lonely feathers were two of Widowmaker’s few possessions – the Talon base offered little in the way of home comforts, and she hadn’t bothered to add anything to it herself. A single bed, cabinet and lamp. A few spare sets of clothes. Her precious rifle. And these two reminders of her past.

If only she could remember who those feathers belonged to. She wasn’t even sure why she had kept them; only that she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away.

A rap at the door brought her out of her musing.

“We’re heading out. Are you ready?”

Reaper looked around the door, fully suited and masked. She had never seen him without the bulky black coat, covering his body and wings completely. She knew the fact that he hid his wings made people uncomfortable. From time to time she heard whispers around the Talon base that he didn't have any; wingless. It made his image scarier, even more inhuman, but she wasn't sure if she believed the rumours.

Widowmaker nodded, rising gracefully from the bunk. She tucked the feathers into the pouch strapped to her thigh, careful to prevent any further damage. If Reaper noticed the gentle way she handled them, he said nothing – mask staring impassively.

Grabbing her rifle and a few poison mines, Widowmaker joined Reaper at the door, not bothering to lock it behind her. Today’s mission would be a short one – they had received intel that Overwatch would be escorting some sensitive cargo. The higher-ups wanted Reaper and Widowmaker to harry their progress; slow them down while another agent could find out exactly what the cargo was. Anything that interested Overwatch interested Talon; once identifying it, they would either steal or prevent the cargo from reaching its destination.

The journey to their objective was quiet. Sat in the back of the truck with Reaper, there wasn’t even a window to stare out of. He was not one for idle chitchat, and Widowmaker was lost in her own thoughts that day. Her previous session with one of Talon’s ‘counsellors’ had only been the day before, and each bout left her mind thick and sluggish for days. She knew exactly what they were doing to her- erasing any memories that did not suit their purposes, removing her identity, leaving her as the perfect weapon. Each session left her empty, widening the gaping abyss within her; her mind begged to fill that expanse with something, to be whole again. It had been getting worse lately. They had taken so much from her that the only thing left she had to cling to was the question: who was she? But Talon gave her no chance.

She was not blind to the fact that this would kill her eventually; they would remove so much, she would fall into nothing. But she was powerless to stop it.

The van suddenly came to a halt and the back door slid open. They had arrived at their destination, then. The sun outside beat down upon them, making Widowmaker squint in the harsh glare as she studied the area. A residential district, crammed with tall buildings and vehicles, civilians milling in every direction. Not the best area for her skills, but she could make it work. After all, she was one of the best.

“Anything suitable?” Reaper asked, handing her a communications device and fitting his own inside his dark hood.

“That one will do.” Widowmaker nodded towards a towering glass building, the roof of which had a small awning that could provide cover if necessary. It provided a decent vantage point of the road their intel had advised would be the main route for their target.

She fitted her earpiece and tucked her rifle securely under her arm when Reaper gave a slight nod in reply. He would be leading the ground troops, of which another van full had just arrived. She could read his body language fairly well by now, and from his posture - rigid, shoulders slightly raised, clawed hands twitching at his guns - she guessed that he wasn't happy about this. She knew he far prefered working on his own; regular soldiers just got in his way.

Reaper didn't seem to mind her providing cover fire for him, however. They had both bailed each other out of a sticky situation more than once. There was a mutual respect between them, Widowmaker supposed. 

“Keep in contact,” Widowmaker said to him, then turned and fired her grappling hook towards the building she had chosen earlier. She felt it connect, and let herself shoot towards the end of the hook. The wind bit at her bare skin. Reaching the end of the line, she unfurled her wings, the tips brushing glass as she used the momentum to fly hard and fast to the top of the building.

She touched down at the top, a quick glance around confirming that it would be suitable as she had guessed. Now on solid floor again, she curled her wings tightly against her back. Ridiculous things. At 16 feet across from the tips, they were huge, and a deep navy-black that shimmered purple in some lights. They were far to showy for her profession, striking an impressive contrast against her slender body. Widowmaker had learned to keep them folded tightly against her back at all times lest she draw attention to her position; it was uncomfortable, especially for long periods of if time, but she wasn’t considered one of the best snipers in the world for nothing. The pain had no impact on her accuracy.

Widowmaker settled into a crouch at the edge of the roof, positioning her rifle in front of her. Through the scope, she could see Talon’s ground troops mixed in amongst the civilians, tense and alert. There was no trace of Reaper, but that was to be expected. Instead she focused on the road that intel had expected their target to come through.

“Look sharp,” a voice crackled in her ear, “Target coming up.”

Widowmaker barely gave a thought to the civilians that would undoubtedly get caught up in this battle. That was Talon’s way, after all. Victory, no matter the cost. She could see the target vehicle enter the edge of her scope. The ground troops began to move into position. 

The target vehicle was a modern one, a hover car with a large trailer. It was followed closely by two smaller, wheeled vans; an escort. Just as expected. Widowmaker took aim at one of the front tyres, firing the perfect shot without hesitation. It burst, sending the escort car skidding into the pavement. Immediately she focused on the other van, repeated her shot, this time causing it to veer into the target hover car itself.

Pedestrians screamed. All three cars had mounted the pavement, causing people to flee in every direction. Talon agents moved in. 

Before the Overwatch escorts could react, Widowmaker turned her attention to the driver of the hover car. An omnic, she could tell through her scope; but the headshot she pumped out merely bounced off the windscreen. She tutted in annoyance. Reinforced glass. 

By now, Overwatch agents were streaming out of the escort vehicles to direct civilians to safety and engage with Reaper’s troops. The man himself had appeared on top of the hovercar, jumping down to drag the omnic out of the cabin. Seems like they had thought alike. Best that she provide him cover for now. She took a soldier approaching him from behind and they crumpled to the ground. 

There was a grunt of what she supposed could be thanks in her ear piece. She smirked, feeling the thrill of the fight flow through her.

“We won't have long before backup arrives. Let's finish this quickly,” her earpiece rumbled. 

Widowmaker frowned in return. She always worked quickly and efficiently. As if to prove a point, she downed three soldiers in quick succession.

The rest of the soldiers suddenly scattered in unison, taking cover under nearby cars and buildings. It looked like they had finally realised her position. She would need to move if she was to be of any use now.

Widowmaker rose from her spot, preparing to toss a few poison mines into the fray, when she saw a flash of blue in the corner of her eye.

She span just in time to dodge the pistol rounds that flew in her direction.

“Of course, you would be here.”

That fashion disaster of an agent stood ahead of her, pistols at the ready. Her short brown hair was tousled from the flight up to the building, her wings held at the ready behind her. At only 13 feet, they were far smaller than Widowmaker’s own, but were light and speedy just like the girl herself. A brilliant macaw blue on the outside and a sunny yellow on the inner, they clashed horribly with her orange leggings.

“We can't just let you Talon buggers take whatever you want, love.” The girl winked at her. “And you're causing some right issues for my friends down there.”

“Hmph.” Widowmaker stepped backwards and fired off a few rounds from her rifle’s automatic mode, but the girl merely danced away from them. What was her name again? After their encounter at King’s Row, Widowmaker had read all the files Talon had on this particular agent, but she had gone through countless treatment sessions since. Her fuzzy mind refused to remember the details. 

“Come on! Usually you've got more than that.” The girl grinned and cartwheeled towards her, flipping her pistols around to fire in the sniper’s direction, who ducked towards the edge of the roof.

Widowmaker narrowed her eyes and drew a poison mine from the pouch at her thigh, causing the girl to hold in her advance. Excellent. 

“I'm afraid I don't have time for this today, chérie.” She snapped her scope up to her eye and flicked it upwards. Within a split second, she saw the girl tense, and knew she was preparing to recall backwards the moment the shot was fired. 

So instead, Widowmaker turned and dived off the edge of the building. 

She heard a gasp of surprise from the roof, but was already surveying the nearby buildings for another spot; two were within grappling distance. She spread her wings, slowing her descent, but could already hear tell-tale wingbeats above her. The girl’s reactions were quick as always. 

“What are you hoping to achieve here?” the girl yelled, dipping down to fly level with Widowmaker. Their wings almost brushing at the close proximity.

“I merely do as I am ordered. I'm not privy to all the intimate details of our plans,” Widowmaker spat back.

She didn't shrink away. “And you're happy fighting for that? A cause you don't believe in, and an organisation that mistreats you?”

It wasn’t her job to be happy. She was a weapon. She twisted mid-air, swatting at the girl with the butt of her rifle. She blinked out of sight.

Knowing it would be seconds before she reappeared somewhere unexpected, Widowmaker fired her grapple at the nearest rooftop. She landed, taking a moment to take in the battle below. It looked like it was going in Talon’s favour; the back of the hover car had been sawn off, ground troops swarming to get at the cargo inside. 

A rush of air behind her signalled the return of the Overwatch agent. Widowmaker held her rifle at the ready. 

The girl merely held out her hand. 

“Come back to us.” 

Widowmaker drew in a harsh breath. The girl stood still, for once, gazing at her with sincere eyes, beckoning.

“You don't have to suffer for anyone else anymore. We’ll keep you safe this time. I promise!”

She was almost pleading; the expression didn't suit her normally cheerful face. Something inside Widowmaker’s chest twisted uncomfortably. 

Time seemed to slow as she looked at the girl. A thought hovered at the edge of her mind, unable to grasp it. A life forgotten. 

No. She couldn't think about it here. She needed to kill this girl, before she was killed. That was the fight. Her life. Widowmaker raised her rifle.

“I see.” The girl’s eyes seemed sad. “I'm sorry love, but I really can't allow you to cause any more havoc.” She blinked away.

Widowmaker held her breath. She couldn't allow distractions. The girl would be planning to finish her quickly and re-join her allies below. She clicked her visor over her eyes, watching carefully as red figures flooded in at every angle. There. The building across from her, top floor. A small figure crouch just under the window, preparing something in their hands. Widowmaker frowned. Why couldn't she remember the intel?

The figure stood and blinked away, suddenly on the roof opposite. For a moment the pair just stood, watching each other. Then the girl jumped.

Widowmaker realised her intentions as the girl fell towards her, arms drawn back. In her hand was a glowing pulse bomb. 

No time to think, Widowmaker flung her arms out and heaved. Her hands buried themselves into fistfuls of feathers, tightly. She felt the pressure of the bomb land between their chests, felt the girl kick at her grasp as she tried to blink away but with no success.

She felt alive.

The girl's eyes widened as she realised she couldn't break free, scrabbling at the arms that trapped her. The bomb screamed its countdown.

Suddenly Widowmaker’s vision was enveloped in blue light, her legs no longer touching the ground. Wind roared past her ears. The girl tore away from her with a burst of force.

The world reappeared around them. The girl screamed as fistfuls of her feathers were ripped out as she jolted away. Widowmaker lost her balance, falling backwards heavily. Her shoulder cracked and she cried out in pain.

The bomb exploded on the building behind them.

Widowmaker clambered to her knees, clutching her shoulder, the world around her unsteady. Nausea almost overwhelmed her. What had happened? Clearly something to do with the girl's abilities. Had she been unable to move through time alone while Widowmaker was clutching her, and forced to bring them both? 

The girl was crouched a few paces away, pale and unsteady on her feet. The machine at her chest blinked warningly. Her feathers were scattered around the pair of them, bent and broken. 

Widowmaker felt for her rifle, but realised she had dropped it on the other rooftop as she’d grabbed the girl.

The Overwatch agent felt at the device on her chest, her features overtaken by fear. The pulsing blue light must have been a bad sign. She glanced up at Widowmaker. They were both defenceless.

Slowly, never taking her eyes off the girl's, Widowmaker lifted a shaking hand to her ear piece.

“Reaper, my position has been compromised.” Her voice sounded hollow. “I need an extraction.”

“Where?” The response was immediate.

“Grey building. 16 storeys. About 40 meters from my original position.”

“I see it. Standby.” 

The girl seemed to shake herself back into action at the promise of Reaper’s arrival. She flashed a resigned look up at Widowmaker. “You’ll be out of the fight for a little while. The first time travel is hard to stomach, and I'm not really supposed to take passengers.” A small smiled played at her lips, like a peace offering. “Take care of yourself, love!”

With that, she carefully picked her way to the edge of the building and spread her wings. Then, she was gone.

A swirling of black smoke across the rooftop announced Reaper’s arrival before he materialised directly in front of her. She tried to stand, but the floor swayed beneath her and blue lights blinked behind her eyes; she toppled forwards, but Reaper caught her before she could fall. 

“Status?” His voice was gruff as always, but his mask inspected all over her, checking for injuries.

“That time hopping agent.” A clawed hand felt at the top of her arm and she hissed in pain.

“Your shoulder is dislocated. You’ll need to get it set,” he informed her.

“The target?”

“They were weapons,” he replied. “We’ve seized them, the battle is almost over. Come on.”

Widowmaker allowed Reaper to clasp both of her arms tightly, trying to swallow down the pain. She had shadow-stepped with him before, but it was never a pleasant experience. Rather than watch her own body disintegrate beneath her, she closed her eyes, and the stress of the day finally caught up to her. The fight with the Overwatch agent, being snapped back through time, the pain in her shoulder; and now finally, Reaper’s ability breaking her down to mere atoms to allow them to teleport. It was too much for her body cope with.

She let the dark smoke take her, falling into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recovering from the battle. I live for Widowmaker and Reaper being best buds; there'll be a lot of focus on their relationship too.

Widowmaker woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and grey walls all around. The bed she lay in was more comfortable than those at Talon headquarters. She sat up, head spinning as she did so. Reaper was sat on the floor against the bed, and turned to face her when he heard her move.

“I had to set your shoulder,” he informed her. He still wore his mask and heavy coat, and was cleaning one of his shotguns. “You might be out of action for a little while.”

“Where are we?” Widowmaker asked him, glancing around the room. It was small and rather barren; the bed she was in, a small cupboard opposite, and a table in the center of the room that was littered with maintenance equipment for weaponry. Her rifle leaned up against it.

“One of my safehouses,” he answered, setting the shotgun down on the floor next to him. “I had one nearby. It was faster to bring you here than back to headquarters. It was a fucking surprise, you passing out like that.”

Widowmaker herself was surprised. Falling unconscious on the battlefield? Unheard of. She lived for the fight: failure was not an option. She thought back to the battle. That overwatch agent had gotten into her head; that shouldn't have been possible.

She swung her legs off the bed. Some of the girl’s ripped out feathers were still stuck to her bodysuit.

“That Overwatch agent. What was her name?”

“You mean Tracer?”

Tracer. Yes, that fit. Widowmaker already knew this; she had just forgotten it. Made to forget. She thought back to the battle, to the hand that Tracer had offered to her. Come back to us.

Widowmaker plucked one of the feathers from her suit and twirled it between her fingers. It was a striking blue, bright and glossy.

It was familiar.

Widowmaker drew in a sharp breath and scrambled to open the pouch at her thigh. She drew out the two feathers that were carefully tucked away, holding up the smaller blue feather. She glanced between it and Tracer’s discarded one; the same bold colour, the same short length, the same shine in the light. They were the same.

Come back to us.

Was it possible she had known this Tracer? That they were close enough for Widowmaker to keep one of her feathers, and to cherish it despite losing her memories?

“Who am I?” she whispered, her fingers beginning to tremble, still clutching the two feathers. The abyss within her swallowed this little clue and begged for more, for something to fill it. For something to live for.

Reaper looked at her silently.

“No. Questions aren't allowed at Talon,” Widowmaker muttered to herself. What was happening to her? She was supposed to be cold, unflinching. A poised killing machine. But her last session with Talon’s ‘therapists’ had left her shaken, her sense of self cracked. She suspected they had finally stretched her mind to it's limits; reprogrammed her too many times. And now, this meeting with Tracer was causing her to fall apart. Her chest tightened. She gasped, but couldn't seem to draw in the air she needed: it choked her instead. The room titled around her.

A hand fell upon her arm, grounding her. “Breathe,” Reaper’s growling voice instructed, “Slowly. Focus on me.”

She did so, sucking in a breath as she stared at the black eyes of his mask. The pinpricks in her arms receded. The world began to right itself. Reaper didn't let go of her arm. Her breathing steadied again.

“Good. Now lie down and don't move from that bed until I'm back.” He rose and left the room, coat rustling.

Widowmaker fell back against the bed, taking measured breaths. She allowed herself to stretch her wings out from behind her and wrap them around her body, shielding out the world. Soft feathers stroked against her cold skin. A small comfort.

She couldn't recall ever experiencing something so terrifying. She could face down any opponent in battle. But the feeling of losing control of her own body to panic was something else entirely. Maybe this truly was the beginning of the end. Talon had made her, but now they had broken her too.

Tucked safely away in her wings, her mind wandered over her grim fate. She supposed it was human nature to focus on macabre topics. Would anyone mourn her? She liked to think Reaper would regret the loss, even if just a little: they worked well together. But what about… Tracer? They had obviously had some kind of connection. And the owner of the other feather that was hidden away in her pouch. She didn't know who it belonged to; perhaps they were also out there. She might have met them without even realising, just as she had crossed paths with Tracer.

The more she thought over her two cherished feathers, the more a thought began to form in the back of her mind. She hardly dared consider it, but she could not return to Talon. She knew she would not survive it. Despite her unwavering loyalty to them, her body’s natural programming screamed at her to stay away. To live.

Could it be done?

The door squeaked open suddenly and Reaper strode through. Widowmaker adjusted her wings to see him better just as he thrust a plastic bag at her. She blinked at it before he grunted.

“Sit. Eat.”

He swept aside some of the maintenance equipment from the table in the centre of the room, tipping the bag’s contents in its place. It was almost all pastries and sweet treats.

Widowmaker looked at the feast, then to Reaper, who was pointedly not looking at it. She snorted.

Careful not to jostle her shoulder, which was still aching from being dislocated, she settled herself cross legged on the floor by the table. She allowed her wings to relax by her sides, a relief from having them taut to her back as she usually did. She took a bun from the pile and began to eat slowly. Reaper seemed satisfied, as he turned away from her to undo his gauntlets. She wondered exactly how he had managed to get this food.

“What happened with Tracer?”

Widowmaker chewed slowly as she pondered his question. “She asked me to go back with her. That Overwatch would ‘keep me safe, this time’.”

Reaper seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded, as if he understood what exactly Tracer had been talking about. “And? What are you going to do?”

Widowmaker frowned; his question implied that she had a choice in the matter. In the heat of the battle she had turned away from Tracer without even thinking; she was merely a Talon soldier; living for them and only them. But the traitorous thoughts that had slipped into her mind after she awoke in this room still lingered. And now it seemed that Reaper also believed that other paths were available to her.

Widowmaker set the half eaten bun down on the table. “I don't think… I can go back to Talon right now.” She trembled at the thought, as if her own body couldn't believe she was saying words that she should not even be thinking.

Reaper’s mask stared impassively down at her.

“I can't continue like this. I'm not strong enough anymore. They've worn me down too far. Just look at the state I was in after that battle!” She clenched her fists. She should not be succumbing to emotion so easily; she was to be calm, collected, always. “I need to find out who I am. Become whole again. Then, I will be able to return to them.”

Reaper still hadn't said anything. As Widowmaker glanced up at his mask, she realised she might have made a huge mistake. Despite how often he acted on his own, Reaper was still a Talon agent. How far did his loyalty go? Would he turn her in for her blatantly treacherous words? There was no telling what sort of conditioning Talon would put her through if they knew she was considering running from them for her own sake. Her fingers inched towards her rifle.

Reaper sighed suddenly and lowered himself to the floor to sit cross-legged opposite her. “I suspected your programming might have been failing. It was another reason I brought you here, instead of to base.” He looked up. “Talon won’t let you turn your back on them, even if you say you’re coming back.”

Widowmaker stared at her open palms. She couldn't remember her first few months at Talon, try as she might. Even memories of more recent times were difficult, especially in the days following a therapy session when her mind was hazy and sluggish. Only battles stood out as bright spots in her life, the only things that made her feel like she was living. But after they were over, she was still left feeling empty inside. Hollow.

She placed Tracer’s leftover feather on the table and pulled out the one in her pouch to rest next to it. She thought back to the fight on the rooftops, and Tracer’s words. The clue that these feathers offered her, that Tracer offered her, towards her identity burned brighter than any battle. The abyss within her begged to be filled, a stronger cry than her even her embeded loyalty to Talon. This could be her only chance.

“I am prepared,” she whispered, voice cracking. She could not take it back now. She was on this path, for better or for worse.

“What are you going to do?”

Widowmaker paused, thinking. She would need a clear goal if she was to make the most of this chance. “I need to find out who I was. Who I am. I suppose Overwatch would be the place to start; it seemed like that Tracer knew something about me, after all.”

“Overwatch…” Reaper mused, “then maybe we can help each other out.”

He glanced up at her, then reached up and took off his mask.

She had seen him without it before; twice, from walking into his his room unannounced. Both times he had calmly replaced it, and neither of them drew attention to it or mentioned it again. Widowmaker hadn't studied his face closely as she knew it wasn't her business.

This however, was deliberate; a sign of trust just as she had opened up to him. An offering. She let her eyes roam his face. It was scarred, an ashen colour that was definitely not healthy. Patterns of dark smoke shifted under his skin, the smoke that he dissolved into when he teleported. His eyes were a blood red. It was a scary sight.

But it was the face of an ally.

“I have a tip off on the location of an Overwatch base near to here,” he continued. His voice sounded unfamiliar to her now, no longer muffled by the mask. “I want to infiltrate it. Someone watching my back wouldn't go amiss. You might even find the information you're looking for.”

“What about Talon?” She asked.

His lip curled in response. “They do not own me. Their goals matched my own for a time, but I was always my own man.”

“Very well.” Widowmaker offered him a slender hand and he grasped it with a hard grip. “I look forward to working with you again.”

He snorted and pulled away from the handshake, moving to put on his mask again. He grabbed the shotguns that had been discarded when she had woken up. He strode towards the door.

“This place is secure,” his voice rumbled from beneath the mask, “Use it if you need it.” He swept out of the room and Widowmaker was left alone in the silence.

She leaned back against the bed frame with a small sigh, stretching out her wings. The tips brushed the walls at either side. Part of her was glad Reaper had left; she was exhausted, ready to crumble. The ache in her shoulder hadn't eased and her mental state wasn't any better. She wasn't equipped to handle this.

She looked back to Tracer’s feathers still resting on the table. The vivid blue   
standing out so determinedly against the gloomy emptiness of the room seemed to shout at her not to give up. She thought of Tracer herself, holding out a hand with a sad smile.

Come back to us.

Tracer knew something about her past. If Widowmaker sought her out, would she tell her? Or would she attack her? Widowmaker drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and enveloping herself in a cocoon of her wings. Talon had provided her a life of simple monotony; fighting, resting, fighting. The prospect of having to make decisions and live for herself was overwhelming.


	3. Chapter 3

Widowmaker spent the next two weeks at Reaper’s safehouse. At first, she was giving her shoulder time to heal -and it had faded to a mere dull ache when she overstretched - but as the days went on, she began feeling a tightness in her chest, a restlessness, with her heart beating far faster than it should. She was long overdue a session from Talon’s counsellors; Reaper theorised that she was experiencing some kind of withdrawal from the conditioning. Each headache and tremor made her reconsider her decision.

Reaper himself stopped by the safehouse from time to time. At first, his visits were brief, only to drop off food or news of Talon’s hunt for her, but his visits grew longer as the time went on, providing her some distraction from the discomfort she was feeling, even if he didn't talk all that much. Widowmaker found herself growing accustomed, even appreciative, of his presence.

As the two-week mark passed, Widowmaker was finally feeling her mind clear. Shaking off the clutches of the last session she had received had been difficult, painful; but now the thick thoughts of absolute loyalty to Talon were no longer filling her immediate attention, she knew she had made the right choice.

She was ready to pursue her goal now, and two weeks of house arrest had left her trigger finger itching for action.

And so, the morning after one of her most restful nights of sleep ever, Widowmaker decided to visit the Overwatch base that Reaper had given her the location to. She filled the pouch at her thigh with some rations, grabbed her rifle and left the safehouse. 

The base wasn't too far from the city they were staying in; about a two-hour flight to an industrial area, so Reaper had told her. She glanced around: this early in the morning, the street was quiet and her presence went unnoticed. 

She fired off her grappling hook to a nearby building to get a burst of momentum. Trying to fly from standing still was extremely laborious, so before the hook released from the brickwork she unfurled her wings to their fullest, using the speed of the hook to take to the air.

It felt good to stretch her wings after being cooped up inside; and nothing compared to the exhilaration of soaring through the skies. Widowmaker found herself appreciating it anew: Talon hadn't even allowed her to get enjoyment from this most simple pleasure. It was another thing they had stolen from her. In the end, the flight ended up taking more than two hours; she took her time savouring this new feeling. By the time she arrived her wings were aching, despite their large size being well suited for long distance flying, and her injured shoulder was smarting from the exertion. 

The building was just as Reaper had described: a plain steel, ordinary warehouse nestled on the outskirts of the industrial district. Widowmaker situated herself at the top of a tall factory building opposite, prepared her rifle, and settled in for the long wait. She had grown to enjoy these types of missions; at first, just scoping out a target had left her restless and itching to get to some real action, but she had soon come to appreciate the value of the intel it could give her; and prolonging the hunt only made the kill much sweeter in the end. She could stake out this place for hours without even moving if she needed to.

She quickly learned that the place was guarded. From anyone else’s perspective, they might see the two men at the front door as employees on a smoke break, but they had been stood there too long, their eyes too alert and watchful despite their relaxed posture. The building, too, was a front: through her rifle’s scope she could see that most of the levels above ground were unused. She flicked down her visor, tracking heat signatures downwards, downwards, and far past the visor’s range. An extensive underground compound. It was a rather sombre sight, that Overwatch, a group that fought for world peace and developed lifesaving technologies before being outlawed, would now be forced to work undercover in a dingy place like this.

People arrived and left the building randomly throughout the day, including a few high tier agents that Widowmaker recognised from previous clashes with the group. Mei-Ling Zhou, the Chinese Researcher, leaving with a stack of papers. Reinhardt Wilhelm, his huge frame and boisterous laughter on his way out making the guards glance around with worry. Soldier: 76, the vigilante, almost looking civilian in a jacket and cargos, but his guarded posture and stiff walk screamed military to Widowmaker’s knowing eyes.

The sun was almost setting when Widowmaker decided to call it a day. She had grown stiff from lying prone on the roof for most of the afternoon, and still had to make the flight back to the safehouse. She rose, lowering her rifle and stretching. 

Her target exited the building.

Widowmaker instantly spun the scope back up to position. There she was: Tracer, leaving with a cheery wave to the guards. One of her wings was bandaged and braced tightly against her back. Widowmaker’s skin prickled uncomfortably. Wing injuries were never pleasant nor easy to repair, and to know that she was the cause…Was this what guilt felt like?

Through the scope, she saw Tracer put in earbuds and stretch, before jogging away from the warehouse at a speed that would have been a sprint to most people. Widowmaker lowered her rifle and swung it over her back, securing the strap around her front. She needed to focus now if she was to track Tracer successfully. 

She followed Tracer carefully for the next 40 minutes, switching between tailing her from the skies and jumping between buildings. As they reached the city, Widowmaker realised they were halfway back to the safehouse. Tracer began to slow as they reached a large hotel, stretching bother her arms and long legs in turn. Was she staying here? Widowmaker jumped up to a crouch on the roof of a building opposite, flicking down her visor to follow her heat signature inside.

She saw her move up the floors and into a room before the silhouette begin to act strangely. Tracer moved as if to open something, then sagged dramatically before leaving the room again. She moved back down the building, leaving through the front door. Widowmaker pulled down the visor and peered down at the small figure. Even from this distance she could see the annoyed look on Tracer’s face. She clutched a purse in her hands.

Standing up, Widowmaker quickly scanned the area. A busy city, shops and hotels with people milling on the streets. The was a bustling corner shop further down the street. Tracer was headed straight for it. Widowmaker would need to act quickly.

She launched herself off the roof, forcing her exhausted wings to snap open and fly across as quickly as possible so not to be seen. She grappled to the wall, clinging on as her mind raced. This would be the right floor, but which room? She tried to think how far Tracer’s silhouette had moved. A few rooms down perhaps. She swung across the windowsills to what she thought was the right room. She nudged down her visor to quickly check it. It was empty. Good.

Widowmaker pushed against the widow, testing, but it gave instantly under her hands; it was unlocked. She opened it as far as it would go and carefully lowered herself through the gap. She landed silently on the plush carpet, immediately taking in her surroundings.

The room was a fair size, a studio type. A small sitting area with a combined mini kitchen. An ajar door to her left opened to the bedroom. Everything was very neat; a few personal effects, clothes folded tidily on the arm of the sofa; had she picked the wrong room? She had expected Tracer’s room to be as whirlwind as the girl herself. Widowmaker crept into the bedroom. It was much the same story in here; folded clothes on the bed; toiletries lined up neatly on the bedside cabinet. Her eyes trailed over to the dresser; some photographs decorated the top of it. Jackpot.

Most of them were old style printed photos, looking creased and battered. Widowmaker reached for the first photo, showing a younger Tracer and Winston, the gorilla that Talon knew to be the head of the current Overwatch. Pleased that she had guessed the right room correctly, Widowmaker set the image aside and reached for the rest. Most were group photos, showing Tracer at various ages with family and friends. A tiny Tracer, all gap toothed-smile between two adults – her parents? A signed picture of the musician Lucio and the Korean star D.Va. A selfie with Fareeha Amari.

Widowmaker stretched to reach the last photo at the back, hidden behind the rest, holding it with icy fingers. A group photo, with a banner saying ‘anniversary’ hung down from one corner. The old Overwatch members, she guessed, recognising Jack Morrison, the original leader, in the middle. Stood next to him was a dark-skinned man in a beanie, unsmiling. She scanned down the line, finding Tracer near the end. She looked happy, dressed in party gear with her arm around the girl next to her. Widowmaker’s eyes briefly wandered over the girl and felt all her breath leave her; taller than Tracer, with pale skin, she stood within Tracer’s embrace and a hand clasped in the man’s next to her. Her dark hair framed a slender face, hanging below her shoulders. Her eyes were amused, but Widowmaker felt them staring into her own, almost accusing her. She had never felt so uncomfortable to her core. Her fingers trembled.

She didn’t know how long she spent staring at that photo. It was only thud of the front door that shook her from the trance, snapping her to attention. She whipped round to see Tracer skip into the room, arms juggling a carton of milk, keys and a frog shaped purse. She stopped dead at the sight of Widowmaker in the doorway to the bedroom.

For a moment, all the pair could do was stare at each other, Tracer’s brown eyes wide with shock. Then-

“Wait-!”

Tracer cried out, but Widowmaker was already a step away from the widow, wrenching it open and diving out into the cold evening air. Her wings snapped out, forcing herself away with powerful beats despite their ache. She didn’t dare look behind her. How could she have been so foolish to lose track of herself on a mission? Tracer could have quite easily killed her there and then, had she wished.

...But she hadn’t.

Widowmaker pondered the fact as she flew, slowing down considerably now that she was far enough from the hotel that Tracer wasn’t likely to jump after her. The Overwatch agent would have undoubtedly had weapons stashed around her room if not on her person; there would have even been time for her to knock Widowmaker to the ground, standing there in a daze as she had been. Instead, the girl had cried out for her to stay. 

A strange warmth twisted at Widowmaker’s stomach. Was it… hope? Tracer had showed no animosity towards Widowmaker herself, only when she had been representing Talon. It gave her the feeling that she was on the right track. Not only that Tracer knew who she had been, but she may even be willing to discuss it with her. She would have to consider how to approach ask Tracer questions carefully; and what, exactly, it was that she wanted to ask. She couldn’t mess this up now. She had already come so far.

It was only when Widowmaker dropped onto the roof of Reaper’s safehouse did she realise she was still clutching the photograph that she had picked up in Tracer’s room. It was crumpled from her fierce grip. She tried to smooth out the creases as gently as she could as she slipped into the safehouse.

“Find anything useful?”

Reaper was sat at the shabby table, mask off, tapping away on a data pad and barely glancing up as she walked in. Widowmaker nodded silently, holding out the photo to him. She imagined she could feel the dark-haired girl’s eyes burning at her through the back of the paper. She shivered.

Reaper looked up at her unusual movement, his glance falling to the photo she was holding out. A strange look crossed his face, eyebrows furrowing before he quickly schooled his expression. He didn’t move to take the image.

“Where did you get that?” His voice sounded his normal gruffness, but the forced casualness with which he turned back to the datapad told a different story. He almost seemed uncomfortable, if such a thing were possible.

“Tracer had it displayed in her room.” Widowmaker looked back at the photo, scanning the other figures this time. “Have you seen this before?”

“You could say that.”

Her eyes fell on the man stood next to Jack Morrison. Dark skin, scarred, a grumpy expression.

It should have been obvious, really.

“This is you,” she said, flatly, pushing the photo back at him.

Reaper sighed, leaning back from his work, resigned. He took the picture from her, lips tight as he examined it.

“It was who I used to be,” he replied, eyes cold as they swept over the scene of celebration.

“You were with Overwatch?”

“I helped found it. Before they ruined all it stood for.” His lips curled in disgust.

Widowmaker crossed the room and lowered herself to the floor next to Reaper, folding her legs beneath her. He watched her warily, seemingly waiting for her to pass judgement on him, but in reality, she couldn’t care less. In fact, she found that she wasn’t even surprised. Everyone had a past to bear; she realised, and that his must be part of the reason that Reaper wanted to investigate Overwatch. She could hardly pass comment on his past life when hers was the way it was. In a strange way, she found that this made them somewhat kindred. She almost smiled at the idea.

Instead, she tapped a long finger on the figure stood next to Tracer and looked at Reaper inquiringly, unable to find the words for the questions she desperately wanted to ask, but was scared to know the answers to.

Reaper took a moment to answer, studying the girl before looking back at Widowmaker.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “That was who you used to be.”

Widowmaker blew out a silent breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Of course, she had suspected, but the confirmation made it so much more real. Her past self stared up at her, as if pleased she had found this snippet of her life. It was strange looking at herself without the cold skin and hard eyes. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable in her weaponised body.

Widowmaker forced herself back into the present. “Did we know each other?” 

“We met once or twice. This might have even been the first time.” He gestured towards the snapshot of the party. “Not well enough for me to tell you what you’re looking for.”

Widowmaker nodded solemnly. After all, she hadn’t expected that it would be that easy. “I was thinking of approaching Tracer to ask. She seemed… receptive. Enough to hear me out, at least.”

Reaper grunted. “That one would blabber all day if you gave her the chance.” He paused, giving her a brief look. “Are you pissed off that I kept this from you?”

Widowmaker raised a questioning brow. “You’re still entitled to your secrets, even if we are allies.”

“Allies, are we?” He hummed in thought, then pushed the photograph back into her hands. “In that case, are you ready to get to work? The usual infiltration.” He pulled a tiny purple chip out of the datapad and held it up. A small skull was etched into metal. “That is, if you’re not already done for the day.”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, carefully folding Tracer’s photo and tucking it into the pouch at her thigh. She was a professional, always prepared for her work. “Who do you think I am?”

Reaper smirked at her. “I want you to be the one to tell me that, as soon as you find out.”

He held the chip out to her, and she took it from his clawed fingers. He was already moving to collect his weapons, thinking nothing of it, but Widowmaker was struck still, clutching the chip. Almost weightless in her hand, she could barely feel it.

But for the first time, she felt a camaraderie in her life.

And it felt so good.


End file.
